


Dragonbait

by prodigalsanyo



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Crack, Crossover Pairings, Dead Sparrow: Do Not Eat, M/M, Malcolm eats horse heart, Mpreg, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:55:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24165466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prodigalsanyo/pseuds/prodigalsanyo
Summary: Happy Birthday Kate!  You know whats up.To the rest of the fandom: Khal Drogo knocks up Malcolm Bright in GoT AU.  Beware niches, bitches, and broken twinks!  Click at your own risk.
Comments: 9
Kudos: 11





	Dragonbait

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KateSamantha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KateSamantha/gifts).



Once upon a time, at the end of the longest summer, an evil sickness invaded the Kingdom of Westeros. Mothers, brothers, lovers slept until their bodies turned the color of ash, the blood frozen in their black veins, their skin chilled to the bone. Frostbitten corpses pocked the streets like seeds of a senseless and untimely winter. 

Subjects of the kingdom regarded King Martin of the Whitly lineage, as a steady and reasoned monarch in the face of summer skirmishes and cruel droughts. No one raised an outcry when the king sequestered whole stricken neighborhoods for reconstruction projects. In actuality, doors were nailed like coffin lids, and resident subjects taken sick had the hearths burned out of their homes. Natural fire contained the spread but then festival celebrations would once more sew the germs of cold death. 

He took them-- entire households of the dying, the contagious, the elderly women and the disabled men. He needled liquid wildfire into their blood. Servants and business merchants witnessed the king’s mad antics and news of the king’s madness spread like the wildfire that cooked his subjects to death by the hours from the inside out. 

The old women recalled the history of the Whitly bloodline, rumored to carry drops of dragon blood. Their murmurings revived the Whitlys’ reputation of hysterics and lunacy. King Martin’s appearance frightfully declined as the evil sickness returned in pervasive cycles. His well kept dark hair grew to snarls, whitened like the cold death, and he would only wear bleached clothes and thin gloves made of goose flesh treated with alchemical sealants.

Then one day the wicked king declared, ”Burn them all!” He started with the impoverished. The poor elderly were culled by sword or club and denied even the paupers' grave. Their wizened corpses stacked like dry branches and kindled. The women and the children were subdued and poisoned with injections of wildfire. The men sustained injuries fighting the King's Peace, beaten into cooperation before wildfire seared their veins and toasted their livers. 

Not one person of prominence dared object to the king's barbarisms, until His Majesty came for them, too. The king's militia locked the noble lords and ladies in their rooms and starved them out, weakening them until they could not resist. Then King Martin sent for the landed gentry to submit to unmentionable agony. Those who survived the toxic purges administered by order of the king banded in secret to deal with their mad monarch.

The palace guards turned on their king. Jaime Lannister struck his own king from behind, with the right hand that became accursed and that Jamie would one day lose. King Martin survived the betrayal but they tethered him in The Keep with good Ser David, dark of skin and ears of steel who could withstand the incessant ravings of mad King Martin.

Unbeknownst to the palace guards, King Martin invited Gil d’Arroyo, an upstanding law man of the King’s Peace, for a spot of tea in the palace. Amidst the assault on the royal family, Gil happened upon a weasel eyed man named John Watkins bleeding from his side who laid a damp kerchief over the face of a young boy in royal garb. Gil saw the boy was pale and that the boy had dark chestnut hair.

“This was Malcolm Whitly. Alas, so little! His sister lives. You must save the princess and get her across the Narrow Sea,” hissed Watkins.

Gil made the sign of evil at mention of the prince who Watkins declared dead. He kept his eyes and ears open in an eerily quiet castle occasionally punctured by screams, his sword at the ready, as he went to his horse. He supposed the princess dead until he encountered the fairest woman he had ever seen stealing his horse. Though she wore woolspun textiles, her milk white complexion and her instinctive regal bearing gave away her lofty status.

When he found her out, Queen Jessica of the Miltons simply gave over her most precious bundle, the little princess Ainsley. Gil took the young girl and placed her atop the saddle which she smacked with her little fists and snuggled with her plump face. Gil then helped Jessica sit astride.

No one questioned the uniformed man of the King’s Peace as he smuggled the queen and the princess to the ports for passage across the narrow sea. As Gil was not married and his other family cared for his parents, Gil journeyed with Jessica and Ainsley. He was loyal and protective; eventually a worthy husband to beautiful Jaqueline while they lived on the continent of Essos. Gil saw to it that the surviving Whitly royals reached the House of Boutsikaris, friends of the House of Milton. For his bravery, Gil was rewarded with monetary sums to pay Jaqueline’s dowry.

Jessica cried not one tear over the reports of her husband’s imprisonment but her happiness waned over her firstborn lost to her. Like the moon pining after the sun, Jessica only smiled when she was in the same room as her golden daughter. Lord Aristos Boutsikaris was a harsh man but he was extremely fair and practical as he offered asylum to the exiled nobles alongside his odious heirs and assigns. When Lord Aristos approached Jessica Whitly on the matter of Ainsley’s budding womanhood, Jessica gagged into her drink over his word choice but she yielded to his pragmatic advice.

Ainsley would be married. She was displayed to very flattering effect at parties. Lady Cora Boutsikaris arranged these matters for Ainsley’s benefit, as it amused Lady Cora to tease Jessica’s territorial nature. Lady Cora finally arranged a formal courting session wherein appropriate bachelors with serious considerations would approach Ainsley. Gil acted as Ainsley’s guardian, which kept Jessica from losing composure as Ainsley was trotted like a brood mare.

“Fear not, Mother. You’ve raised a strong woman,” Ainsley reassured. Though she had pined for handsome and rebellious Liam in summers past, the only handsome Boutsikaris lad had run off to a life of creature studies and exotic animal trade. While she also adored her artist friend Jin who painted very lovely portraits of her, Ainsley had given him up as well.

After much fanfare and back and forth and wringing of hands and petty whispers, Ainsley was engaged via correspondence to a leper whose house sat atop a very steep estate in Pentos. Ainsley and her husband would never consummate their marriage contract, restricting Ainsley to wifely fealty while leaving her vulnerable to legal technicalities that could teeter at any point into annulment.

“This is that _wretched_ harridan’s doing,” spoke Jessica, seething. Lady Cora had played them.

Or so they thought. Ainsley’s fiance arranged a convoy to bring them to his estates for their engagement ceremony. Then the Dothraki raided the convoy, making off with heavy coffers and gifts to the Boutsikaris family. The khal responsible sent back one lone survivor who blathered and clutched a portrait of Ainsley with a counter offer of marriage scratched in blood. Gil’s wife Jacqueline knew the language and the customs of the Dothraki and they trusted her.

“It seems you have a taker who is not unclean. Thank the gods, old and new, for that small mercy,” said Jessica.

As relieved as she was that Ainsley would be spared the cruelties of a two chambered marriage, Jessica nearly wept as she readied her daughter for their first meeting with the Dothraki Khal.

“You’re perfect,” cried Jessica.

Ainsley stood erect, shoulders back, with her fair face unabashed even in her nudity. Her lengthy cornsilk hair framed her rosy pink nipples and the clever shape of her eyes.

“I have a woman’s body now, Mother. You’ve taught me well,” said Ainsley.

“My sweet summer child. If only we didn’t have to sell you to the savages,” said Jessica.

“Mother, I would lay with each one of them if we get ships and horses and men. We’ve got much to work for,” said Ainsley.

“Ainsley! That is not speech befitting a princess,” said Jessica, clutching her necklace.

“It is for the ruler of Westeros,” said Ainsley, eyes glinting like an iron throne.

A smile played about Ainsley’s lips as she puckered her lips in an airy kiss. “Of course, it’s not my idea to send any war ships west. I don’t want to fight. I simply wish to run things.”

Jessica was shocked into laughter. 

“I almost feel bad for Khal Drogo and his forty thousand strong. The morning after, he’ll wake to the dragon in his bed,” said Jessica. She grabbed her daughter’s hands and pressed her cheek to her daughter’s fingers before they helped each other into a large and steaming bath.

“My ladies! The water’s far too hot!” cried the maid waiting on them.

The weather was beautiful for the meeting between Ainsley and Khal Drogo. Lord Aristos played host. He did not permit his wife and children to be present at the house. Jessica finished a pitcher of sangria and commented on the Dothraki’s vague understanding of timekeeping. Jacqueline teased her but joined in when Jessica started the second pitcher. Gil allowed himself one glass to wet his gullet but otherwise stayed sharp for Ainsley’s sake.

They tensed in false expectation when they heard the first pattering of hoof beats. Instead of a Dothraki horde, a single horse conveyed a slim rider. The stranger’s horse was very tired and thirsty from journeying. He wore filthy black clothes faded gray by sun and salt. Scraps of fabric, lengthy and ragged, wound about the crown of his head, concealing his face and neck. The skin around his eyes were smeared sooty and black to block out blinding rays from the sun.

“Hello! I hail from Westeros. I’ve come here for Queen Jessica and Princess Ainsley! They’ll want to speak with me!” The stranger raised both hands as his horse walked up the path from the road.

Lord Aristos would have had his hired muscle beat the stranger and send him on his way if not for Gil.

“Let us see what he wants. He’s just a kid. Hear him out, my Lord,” said Gil.

“Do you know that young man?” asked Lord Aristos.

“What have I to do with a tramp?” retorted Jessica.

“If he dares encroach, let him face the consequences.” Ainsley cupped one of the decorative pins on the strap of her dress. She prepared to remove the pin and jab it in the stranger’s neck if he woke the dragon within her.

The strange tramp dismounted. Lord Aristos directed his valet to deal with the tired horse. 

“Who are you? Where in Westeros did you come from?” demanded Lord Aristos. He sniffled, his large and austere face disapproving at the bladed weaponry strapped onto the stranger’s back.

“Allow me to introduce myself as Bright, formerly of the Night’s Watch, my Lord.”

“For shame!” exclaimed Gil upon hearing. “You’ve deserted your post on the Wall.”

Before Gil could draw his weapon to admonish Bright, a great thundering sounded, forewarning the arrival of the Dothraki and their Khal.

“No weapons! No weapons out! The khal may see this as a challenge to fight. Or worse, as an invitation for a fun little death match!” said Jacqueline, sobering up. She smacked at Gil’s arm and missed because she was seeing two foxy husbands.

Gil grabbed Bright by the scruff of his collar, pulling him back and out of sight while Lord Aristos announced Ainsley to Khal Drogo, with Jacqueline translating in Dothraki.

Ainsley stuck her nose high in the air as she sauntered down the bricked steps. Her nipples showed through the scant cloth of her formal dress. She tossed her hair over her shoulder like a proud filly and then perched her hands on her hips in a position that spoke to her overwhelming confidence and surety of her personal worth.

As she waited on Khal Drogo to appraise her, Ainsley tipped her face up and looked down her nose at him, pasting on a poised smile that showed her flawless teeth.

Khal Drogo’s thick brows knit together. His nostrils flared and he snorted before hawking a globular loogie from his mouth onto Ainsley’s cheek. His aim was deadly sure. Spittle dripped from Ainsley’s chin to her chest, staining her dress with Dothraki contempt.

“You brute!” cried Ainsley. Her nose and her cheeks flushed in shame. She fanned at herself as tears welled in her eyes. Then she picked up her skirts, turned tail, and ran towards her mother.

Jessica’s wine glass shattered as she clasped her daughter tightly. Khal Drogo’s booming and enraged shout chased Ainsley into frantic retreat.

“Oh, here go.” Jacqueline took the pitcher of sangria and drank right from its brim.

“Wife, what the hell just went down?” demanded Gil.

The Dothraki warriors trotted around the house of Lord Aristos. Their horses shat on freshly swept paths laid with rosy stonework. The Dothraki then pissed in Lord Aristos’s fountain. Shortly after, the warriors shouldered their way through his attendants and personal guards to gain armed entry in the house. More noises of broken crockery and tearing and clattering issued forth.

“Everyone who desires no harm to befall their person, stay in place,” directed Lord Aristos.

The stranger named Bright dashed after Jessica. Jessica swabbed at Ainsley’s wet cheek with her kerchief.

“Ains, did he hurt you?” asked Bright.

“No, he did not. He’s awful,” said Ainsley.

“I’ll avenge you. This assault upon your honor shall not go unanswered,” said Bright.

“Why? What do you care about a scorned maiden?” asked Jessica.

“What kind of brother would I be, if I don’t punish anyone who hurts my baby sister?”

“Malcolm!” sobbed Jessica. They were all close enough to see the blues of his eyes blazing fiercely and vividly through the narrow opening of his ratty hobo turban.

“Don’t go, bro! He’ll kill you!” exclaimed Ainsley.

Malcolm would not heed their shrill warnings or calls to surrender to Dothraki humiliation. He ran on heavily scuffed boots, pulling the short handle of his single head tomahawk from its trappings. The tomahawk had one cutting edge and one piked end. Malcolm flipped it until the black blade was aligned with his intent to engage.

“Fight me, Khal!” shouted Malcolm. He was agile by far, with speedy movements. He brought himself into proximity to the khal’s horse. As he dodged the hoofs, Malcolm swiped the spiked blade of his tomahawk at the khal’s ankle.

However, though he took a great risk, Malcolm did not seek to injure man or horse. He slashed at the khal’s stirrup hobble straps, hooked in the tomahawk’s spiked end, and pulled. They met eyes as Malcolm nearly unseated the khal. 

Khal Drogo reflexively stood on his intact stirrup, kicking out the leg nearest Malcolm. Malcolm danced out from a blunt force kick, releasing his tomahawk to do so, but Khal Drogo grabbed the turban. The battered fabric unwinded like a strand of fate between them.

Chestnut tresses undulated in the breezy air of Pentos before resting upon Malcolm’s shoulders. Sunlight revealed reddish tones in his long hair, bringing out the resemblance to his auburn mother. His fine cheekbones and the point of his bearded chin were features common to southern Westerosi like his mother. His pallor spoke of years hiding in a sunless country, prowling the wall to the north like a mad dog.

Faced with a formidable man such as Khal Drogo, Malcolm’s fearful eyes belied his experienced fighting stance. Their blue coloring was finer than any gemstone to arouse covetous want and his lashes were pronounced as a doll crafted in the west. Yet the passionate emotions radiating from within gave Khal Drogo pause.

“My sister. You do not besmirch my sister,” said Malcolm.

His bottom lip trembled, looking up to Khal Drogo from beneath his lashes, the whites of his eyes showing more prominently as Malcolm experienced the unique terror of speaking his mind to a violent brute who did not live by reason or mercy.

“No,” said Khal Drogo, his voice deep but softer than what Malcolm expected.

The khal held onto the frayed length of Malcolm’s turban. He placed it around his great and brawny shoulders as though it were a garland.

One of the Dothraki watched their exchange. The warrior shouted orders, drawing comrades out of the house. After a terse conversation, the warriors who ransacked the Boutsikaris house reluctantly offloaded their plunder right where they stood. Each Dothraki returned to their steed empty handed.

Khal Drogo maintained his inscrutable gaze on Malcolm even as he turned his mount and led away his men without another word spoken.

Malcolm was nearly strangled from behind, from how hard his sister embraced him. His mother took him into her arms, like one tangled mass of hair and tears.

“Oh, sweetheart. My baby,” said Jessica, gutted.

They dragged Malcolm to the house, stepping around the gold candelabras and unraveled bolts of silk and spilled coins and horse shit.

“Gil, you told us that you saw the prince dead,” said Jessica, staring with daggers.

“He was on the floor with a white square over his face. The man who was with him told me to find you and Ainsley,” said Gil.

“Watkins was my father’s lackey. He purposely deceived you. He wanted me for leverage should the Lannisters come after him. Watkins was a very strange man but he kept me alive until he received his calling. He joined a religious cult who only wear gray and they refer to each other as sparrows. I was maybe fourteen when I took the black to survive. I said nothing of who I was and spied on everyone who came to the wall. I heard news of you, Ains! I risked execution to come!"

"Sweetheart, you've taken the oath. You can't marry or have your own land in our country. If we ever make it back," despaired Jessica.

"No one wanted me then. I gave up my rights as a free man to meet my basic needs. It doesn't matter now, when my place is with you, my mother and my sister," said Malcolm.

His eyes were haunted. "We have time before the wall fails. By then, the three of us sail further south, stay ahead of the winter."

"Malcolm, what in the seven hells? You haven't had any wine to talk strangely and morbidly. Are you mad as dad?" asked Ainsley. 

"You haven't been to the edge of the world. It's cold and full of terrors. Better that we are here, in exile, than trapped in King's Landing, blissfully unaware." Malcolm's right hand shook. "Mother, we must stick together no matter what comes, when they come."

"You're not going anywhere, your Grace, not if you value life and limb and the safety of your family," said Lord Aristos to Malcolm. Behind him, many attendants and servants conveyed his valuable possessions. "Khal Drogo has not bandited my wares. He will return to my residence and you are here when he does so."

"He can't have Ainsley. He will not treat her how a proper husband would!" said Malcolm.

"He doesn't want Ainsley, Prince Malcolm," said Jacqueline. "The Dothraki were about to take all the goods from Lord Boutsikaris, their way of exacting penalties for an offense. Their khal found Ainsley not to his liking."

"Can we move beyond that, please?" said Ainsley, nettled.

"Then we seek refuge elsewhere rather than impose on this lord's household," said Malcolm.

"Kid, shut up for a second. You're the foreigner here," said Gil.

"Khal Drogo began to confiscate my belongings, but his men stopped and incurred no further damage to my property. He will indeed have his mate,” said Lord Aristos.

"No. No, not my mother," said Malcolm.

"No indeed. He wasn't looking at Queen Jessica, fair though she may be," said Lord Aristos.

"Get with it, city boy. Who else was before the khal? That’s who Khal Drogo intends to have," said Gil.

Malcolm's disbelieving gaze swept from Lord Aristos's patriarchal solemnity to Jessica's own shock to Jacqueline's pitying look.

"Me?" hissed Malcolm. "I'm the idiot that swung my weapon at him."

He scowled in outrage. "And he made off with it!"

"Well, after you've exchanged vows, you may lodge your complaint as his Khaleesi," said Lord Aristos. He clapped his hands and very large women advanced upon Malcolm, their arms heavily corded with muscle. "In the meantime, we shall do everything in our power to prepare you for your upcoming nuptials. For better or worse, you will be ready when Khal Drogo comes for what is his. Otherwise, my household will not survive his displeasure."

Malcolm underwent rites of beautification in which his flesh was almost raked from his bones to peel off dead skin. He smashed a looking glass and got the handmaidens to abort their attempt to wax him bodily. With the amount of hair dusting his underarms, his stomach, and his nipples, Malcolm wouldn’t submit. Jessica and Ainsley were permitted to ready Malcolm the night before his wedding.

As a boon to his family, Malcolm cut his beard and shaved the remainder of his whiskers. Ainsley and Jessica desired to behold his face without obstruction. The pale mark on his smooth upper lip signified the first robber to catch him on the open road. Jessica wept for her son who lived for he was beautiful to behold. 

His hair became lustrous after soaking in hot oil treatments and trimming away ends split by wintry climes. No amount of exfoliation faded his scars. Training under the Night’s Watch striped his hands and his lower arms. His nicked brow stood as testament to when Watkins injured and abducted him on that fateful day. 

The night before Malcolm’s wedding, both Malcolm and his sister lodged in their mother’s chambers with guards at their door and one posted beneath her window. Jessica slept the earliest after her habitual tonic which permitted Ainsley to steal away into her adjoining bedroom. Using a small blanket, Ainsley quietly dragged in a small but hefty lead chest. Fingers to her smirking lips, she opened the lid, revealing three seemingly carved oblong stones. Each one had their own proud coloring: Amethyst on the left, gold in the middle, and green bloodstone on the right.

“Good gods, Ains, how did you come by dragon eggs?!” 

Ainsley gestured for Malcolm to lower his voice.

“My friend Liam sent these to me as my wedding gift. They come from the shadow lands of Esshai. They’re heavy from petrification, I expect.” Ainsley bit her lip and laid her cheek on his shoulder. “Forgive me. I can’t bear to part with all three of them. My beloved bro, before I change my mind, please choose the one to your liking.”

“It’s enough that I’ve seen them,” said Malcolm.

“You’re taking my place as Khal Drogo’s breeder,” said Ainsley. “He will not be gentle. Have you lain with anyone?”

“Ains!”

She lifted her brow.

"Come now, big bro. Surely there were others after the poor boy besotted with you in the nursery."

"How would you know about Todd?" asked Malcolm.

"Mother. She laughs about it because you played lord husbands one day, and your young man wasn't pretending," said Ainsley.

“There were moments which I wouldn't divulge to you even under threat of death. But I can honestly state that you and mother needn’t worry about any of my bastards running amok,” said Malcolm, dimpling before his smile faded. “Just the ones I’ll make in wedlock.”

“Take one dragon egg, as a favor from me and as a comfort for yourself. I will present it to you at your wedding so that no one dares steal it from their Khaleesi,” said Ainsley.

Malcolm selected the one which glimmered like gold. From what he heard of the Dothraki after questioning Jacqueline, wife of Gil, the day would come when he might need to be resourceful. Their nomadic familial structures seemed ruthless, unstable, and prematurely lethal. A golden egg might save him from becoming bleached bones in a desert.

The house of the Boutsikaris family could not contain spirited Dothraki merriment. Instead, the wedding of Khal Drogo and Prince Malcolm of the Whitlys took place on the rocky shores of Pentos. Malcolm’s hair was let down save for thin sections pinned and beaded. He felt too vulnerable as he addressed their wedding guests, knowing that his clean shaven face displayed his boyish age. 

The sea breeze swayed the silver ribbons secured by precious metal bands on his upper arms. He wore a cropped and sleeveless silver tunic, so thinly woven that it left no imagination to the shape and the contour of his naked chest. He fared worse with a long wraparound silver skirt secured by a thin silver chain which tugged at the dark hairs on his bare navel.

Malcolm’s anxiety heightened into nausea worsened by the charred stench of kidney and gizzards marinated in grease and seasoned wine vinegar over hot white coals. He saw the flies buzzing after the platters of legs from game animals hunted especially for the occasion. He couldn’t think past the moment with lightning quick blades clanging and drums thundering like the turmoil inside him. 

Once more than three of the khalasar lied dead with their throats and their guts slashed in the festivities, Khal Drogo was done with ceremonials. Malcolm’s stomach plunged, heavier than the dragon egg which he never wanted to let go of. He couldn’t look at Ainsley or his mother when he followed his husband, careful not to tear his skirts.

The khal presented Malcolm with a gift of his own. She was gorgeous, a sandy yellow buckskin with her light caramel mane piled in thick tufts between her twitching ears. The muzzle of her head faded darkly, not unlike when stubble flecked Malcolm’s chin. With a few blinks of her thick lashes, Malcolm’s fear receded, especially when the mare turned her cheek into his quivering right hand. Gazing upon the mare, Malcolm decided that her name was Eve, likely the only female he would ride, however his story played out.

“How do I give thanks in their tongue?” Malcolm asked Jacqueline. He habitually looked to her for cultural knowledge.

Jacqueline shook her head. “Gratitude is not by vanity words. You give back as good as you are given, for your tribe but more so to your enemies.”

Malcolm consciously stilled when Khal Drogo came for him. Malcolm’s last known measure of height was 5’5”. Khal stood one whole foot taller, a fifteen stone barbarian. The khal’s enormous and smudged hands framed his waist, rough in texture but not overbearing in grip. Eager to be away from the many eyes of their wedding party boring into him, Malcolm slumped when Khal Drogo handled him, placing him atop the mare. 

Malcolm stood before the edge of the rocky cliffs. The winds from the dashing waves drowned out every sound but the noises of Khal Drogo disrobing. His actual wedding was nothing like any of his imaginings. 

Prince Malcolm of the Whitlys once held expectations of a boisterous feast among his own people. With the loss of his home, he chipped away the palace walls from the fanfare of Prince Malcolm's wedding. With the loss of his family, he removed many beloved faces and the musical bands for Malcolm Bright's wedding. With the loss of his name, he wore the black and supped with his brothers in an eternal Watch, awaiting nightmare guests veiled in white.

Malcolm shivered as the skirt crumpled at his feet. Giant hands imposed themselves on his sensitive cheek, burdening him with their weight until he was made to kneel. He tripped on his tunic which tangled and caught on the uneven rocks beneath his sandals. Malcolm's nose and his eyelids reddened as he teetered into his next loss, head bowed to cover his shame under the curtain of his hair.

Malcolm knew the cool smear of oil before Khal Drogo folded him like dry grass. He clutched at pitted rocks as Khal Drogo fucked him, the unbearable heat and drive of barbaric cock tearing away an ephemeral virtue which Malcolm regretted selling. He sobbed over waves that would reach promising horizons long denied to him.

* * *

The nights following his wedding did not improve the savagery which Khal Drogo deemed as lovemaking. Each snap of the khal’s hips stung the sunburned skin on the back of Malcolm’s legs. All that Malcolm could do was brace his hands and his knees and breathe through the tearing pain breaking his insides. 

His stomach cramped before his arms usually gave out. The friction of his chest collapsed against their bedding chafed him and uncomfortably heated his skin with Drogo splitting him apart, grinding Malcolm until he felt like a damp stain. Struggling only encouraged Drogo to fuck him deeper, as did the pitched yelps which escaped Malcolm’s bitten lips.

Getting pounded from the rear worsened in the desert heat, especially when enough time passed by for Malcolm’s admittedly thin and narrowed beard to grow. The close, stuffy, and hoary air of their tent, musty from grudging sex, only served to deepen Malcolm’s resentment. It hurt so much that Malcolm experienced no wanting when he looked at his husband’s cock. He never met the khal’s eyes either, hating the sensation of those eyes on his body.

Malcolm’s long hair fell over his shoulders, clinging to the sweat dripping from the back of his neck and gathering on his underarms. Breathing heavily, he was grateful when Drogo’s spend dripped from his raw ass. He often slipped into dreams right after, staring with fixed concentration upon the golden dragon egg illuminated by flickering candles.  


Malcolm was given a retinue of maidens who served him and helped him adjust to their harsh way of life and protected his life when Khal Drogo and his warriors mounted a raid for transported cash crops and metal tools which they would weaponize. While Malcolm loved his mother and his sister, they were miserable without the amenities of a fine house. Jessica tossed and turned in her sleep, moaning for room service. 

Ainsley needed more help than Malcolm did. Between the two of them, Malcolm was accustomed to riding horses and traveling long journeys. He learned to cover up in thin but light colored clothes and to shade his eyes and face. Ainsley liked to show her beauty and the desert sun punished her for her vain tendencies. She hobbled every time they broke camp, her hands burned by her reins and her brow roasted in the heat.

For a time, Malcolm was comforted by the company of Gil D’Arroyo and his wife Jacqueline. They wouldn’t stay with the Whitlys forever, but their travels dovetailed with Khal Drogo’s intended route. Gil talked to him about Kings Landing. Gil’s initial contempt for Malcolm, who abandoned the Night’s Watch, thawed out when Jacqueline made them reconcile.

“Why did you break your vows, kid?” asked Gil over a fireside supper. Night hadn't fallen yet, which Malcolm dreaded due to Khal Drogo’s painful rutting. The desert cooled, temperatures plunging until Gil and Jacqueline sat with blankets, as Malcolm spoke of white walkers picking off the already thinned out ranks of the Night’s Watch.

“You expect me to believe the creatures of your wives’ tales?” scoffed Gil.

“They’re worse than in the stories,” said Malcolm. “You can defend yourself with fire but you need your brothers around you against one white walker. Anyone who the white walker kills must be burned. If there’s more than one whiting, there’s no weapon that I know of to fight them,” said Malcolm.

“Why do you burn someone who’s been slain by a whiting?” asked Gil. In spite of his disbelief, he is affected by Malcolm’s gravitas. As a former member of an armed guard, Gil recognized a fellow warrior’s spirit.

“Whitings make more of themselves by death. They cannot procreate naturally,” said Malcolm. Gil made the sign against evil.

“I never thanked you for quitting the King’s Peace to save the lives of my family. On that day, you served the crown,” said Malcolm. With Jacqueline present, Gil briefly patted the back of Malcolm’s head, careful not to raise the ire of Malcolm’s husband. 

Jacqueline saw the dismissive regard directed to Malcolm by his newlywed husband and she told him, “Coupling gets better. It will be better when you carry his baby.”

“I’m just a body to be bred,” said Malcolm.

“Why do you think he treats you as such?” asked Jacqueline.

“Because I’m not Dothraki. Why else,” said Malcolm.

Jacqueline smacked his arm. “You let him do it. If he wanted a Dothraki mate, he could have any one of these lovely and strong women. He wanted you. He wants someone different.”

“I’m sick of being different,” said Malcolm. “If I were my real self, I’d chop off his hand the next time he bothers me.”

Jacqueline’s laugh surprised him. “Worth a try, baby. If I’ve learned anything about marriage, I can tell you that all couples fight.”

* * *

The next evening when Khal Drogo reached for him, Malcolm prepared himself. On all fours, his fingers bunched in the pelt of their bedding. The khal’s hand pressed the taut muscles between Malcolm’s shoulder blades, heavy as he used his weight to raise Malcolm’s ass. When the khal was on his knees, Malcolm’s palm slid between the furs for the tomahawk, recovered from the khal’s weaponry. The short handle made his weapon light and easily concealed. Malcolm rolled suddenly and the khal grunted as he fell onto his side. 

Malcolm perched the straight handle of the tomahawk across the khal’s throat before the khal could sit up. He slanted the tomahawk until the piked blade nicked a thin line of blood. Malcolm stabilized his center of gravity, spreading his bent knees and thrusting his weight until the handle was firmly against the khal’s jaw.

“Zohhe, Drogo,” said Malcolm, twisting his tongue to the Dothraki language. “Athchilar zohhe.”

Drogo raised his hands and lied flat on his back as Malcolm directed. Drogo’s beard laid over the tomahawk. His eyes shined brightly despite the war paint smeared on his face. Drogo spoke slowly and Malcolm understood that Drogo didn’t appreciate being commanded like a stray mongrel.

“Ride me right,” said Malcolm. “Hurt me. You gelding horsey.” Meaning castration.

Malcolm understood also that he spoke on a child’s level in their barbaric language. He allowed his anger and his ready murder stance to make up for clumsy words. He was too mad to properly translate whatever else Drogo said but Malcolm read the slow lick of Drogo’s tongue on his lips, the lust smoldering in his eyes, and Drogo’s fully erect cock. Malcolm was naked and armed and straddling Drogo.

He kept one hand on the tomahawk as he reached for Drogo’s cock, flushed and hard and curving along Malcolm’s crevice. Malcolm squeezed the head of Drogo’s cock, thumbing the underside which he assumed was as sensitive as the soft skin on his own prick. He shoved Drogo’s hand off his ass and pinned Drogo’s hand onto the pelt, making it clear that it wasn’t Drogo’s turn to touch.

Malcolm recognized the swear hissed between Drogo’s teeth. No longer cowed by his anxiety and uncertainty of the future, of what could happen, Malcolm dared to enjoy Drogo’s body firmed up by a lifetime of mortal combat. He compared the width of his handle in one hand to the girth of Drogo’s cock in the other. His appreciation grew as he stroked Drogo, favoring Drogo’s length and fatness without deep pain.

Malcolm became pleased when Drogo responded hungrily. He silently thanked Jacqueline who was correct in her opinion that Drogo’s marriage to Malcolm was proof enough that Drogo was different.

He supposed that Drogo was handsome as well despite the ugly mark slashed over Drogo’s eye. Drogo certainly possessed masculine appeal in droves; no mystery as to how so many strong men followed him.

Malcolm moved the handle of his tomahawk to the base of Drogo’s throat. He drew himself up, turning to face Drogo’s cock and then he settled lower and lower, spreading his ass as he sat on Drogo’s face. All the blood in his body rushed to his prick when Drogo’s tongue circled the rim of his hole and flicked the incredibly sensitive flesh just shy of his balls. Malcolm moaned before wrapping his lips around Drogo’s cock. Drogo’s thigh muscles jumped when Malcolm pushed aside his long hair, the loose brown tresses brushing sensually against Drogo’s bronzed skin. 

Malcolm gripped the tomahawk and bobbed his head up and down until he tasted cum. It wasn’t a full load. Knowing that Drogo was close and that the head of his cock was well slicked, Malcolm crawled down Drogo’s arched body. Once more he faced Drogo, planting his hands on Drogo’s chest. Malcolm didn’t expect his skin to feel so hot or his chest hairs to feel soft. Malcolm licked more spit onto his palm, wetting Drogo’s cock again. Malcolm bit his lip as he fingered his own ass, rocking his hips when he opened easily, pliant from Drogo pleasuring his ass.

Malcolm tilted his head back, baring his neck, jaw dropping, as he took Drogo at a slow but good slide. His desire to be filled overcame the agony of Drogo piercing and stretching him. Drogo batted aside the tomahawk and rubbed circles into Malcolm’s round ass cheeks. Malcolm orgasmed from the drag of Drogo’s cock, the possessive way that Drogo’s arms circled him, and then Drogo’s hand around his prick. Malcolm came all over Drogo’s muscled torso with a mangled yell, complete when Drogo spilled into him as well.

Drogo ran his hands up Malcolm’s chest, his leather bracers catching at the hairs ringing Malcolm’s nipples. Drogo gripped his throat and pulled him down for a kiss.

* * *

The khalasar were in an uproar, crowding for an unexpectedly happy occasion. They raucously shouted in encouragement with hale and hearty cussing. Malcolm stood on crudely staggered stacks of lumber salvaged from what was once a peaceful cottage. His brown hair was pinned up and away from his blood smeared face. A hugely engorged heart pumped blood down to his elbows. The cut blood vessels protruding from the flushed organ were blown so wide that Malcolm could’ve put his fist into them. It was still beating when Malcolm first sank in his teeth.

Blood clumped in his mustache and beard. Where the blood dried, it pulled at his cheeks and his chin when he stretched his mouth to devour the heart. Though the meat was raw, it was steaming hot in his hands. Each mouthful was supple and gelatinous with each swallow, reminding him of how thickly his dear Drogo pulsed in his throat. Hot spurts on his tongue spurred his appetite further. His belly swelled, full of heart that would nourish their baby.

Although those human factors were present, it was not physical hunger or bloodlust which drove Malcolm. He was deep into the last chamber of the heart when his body demanded he quit, when his guts turned on him, threatening to upend pounds of flesh.

Blue eyes rolling, breath quickening, throat sticking, Malcolm pushed through sane limits. 

Then he wasn’t by himself on the platform erected for pagan rites. King Martin appeared before him, his hands folded behind his back.

“For centuries, the most renowned wiseman of our eon postulated that the human heart contained three spaces. Many students of medicine took for granted this commonly held wisdom until--lo and behold!--the most learned men counted four spaces within their own hearts which were cut out of their chests by invaders sacking their city. Thereby disproving the erroneous postulate.”

King Martin circled him. “What is a heart? Surely it is not a mere pump.”

Malcolm pulped the remaining meaty portions in his palm. His jaw ached though he paced himself chewing. He sucked down the last. His fingers stuck to his neck as he massaged his throat, pushing his way to conquest. He glared at his father, seeing through the game which King Martin played.

A loaded hush fell over all present as Malcolm gagged before straightening up and pumping his fists in defiance to the heavens.

King Martin knelt on one bended knee.

“Your heart is a finely tuned engine, my boy, composed of elemental parts. To live, it must be aflame. We burn with fatherly pride,” said King Martin.

“Thank you, Daddy,” said Malcolm, before he was lifted and borne majestically to his khal.

* * *

Ainsley's visage clouded like a black storm as Malcolm bloomed like a desert flower rather than wither away when the khal's child increased his belly. Ainsley did not want her family planted in a wasteland, getting by on stallion hearts and bloodstained riches.

"When do I get an army? Ships? You have your khaleesi, but where is my crown?!" Ainsley demanded.

Khal Drogo did not sully himself or dilute his leadership by speaking the common tongue. However, he possessed ears to listen. Unfortunately for a petulant Ainsley, Khal Drogo afforded her some of his attention.

Though he spoke his own language, Khal Drogo effectively made his point. Two Dothraki physically seized Ainsley. Khal Drogo hefted a cauldron of smelted gold, insulating the brim with thickened leather.

Khal Drogo moved to pour it upon Ainsley's skull when Malcolm, clutching his dragon egg, threw himself before his sister. Molten gold smoldered atop Malcolm's chestnut tresses, gilding his ear, his beard, and then coating the hairs on his chest. Malcolm slammed onto his knees from the weight of the gold as it cooled and leeched the warmth of his body. The hot cauldron laid on its side, pure ore scorching the earth and pooling around the dragon egg which spun from Malcolm's grasp.

The khal loudly rued his rash execution. He could not convey his grief nor impart repentance with his hands or his strength, driven back by the searing touch of gold. The accursed gold cost him a lifelong honeymoon with the one who carried his child.

Malcolm rolled onto his side, hugging his stomach. He was relieved that his sister and his beloved ceased their quarrel. Satisfaction gave way to annoyance as he encountered hindrance to every movement to sit up.

He finally moved his arms to scrape away what felt like warm mud sticking on his skin and in his hair. It stung his eyes as well, and his vision swam as his tears rinsed the muck from his lashes.

Awful crying reached his good ear. Malcolm was shocked because it sounded like his Drogo, if his husband were to shed tears.

"Malcolm! Malcolm, how are you alive?!" exclaimed Ainsley.

"Could I have your kerchief, Ains?" asked Malcolm. "And why is it so draughty in this tent?"

Malcolm shivered as his clothes fell off in singed tatters. Once the gold hardened into thin leafing and soft wires, Khal Drogo boosted Malcolm onto his shoulders and paraded him around in nothing but the gold, much to the mortification of Malcolm's western sensibilities. The warriors who witnessed the miracle shouted and declared what they saw.

Malcolm waited for the moment when they were alone. Once Malcolm assured his beloved Drogo that he was well and that their baby was fine, he jumped and landed an uppercut on Khal Drogo's jaw.

"That's for almost killing my sister!" yelled Malcolm.

Drogo did not flinch from the blunted pain, but a tear trickled from his eye because it was Malcolm who struck him.

"She called for death. Greedy bitch would sell you for crowns. Her words dishonored you. You are worth more to me than a kingdom in another land. I would not trade you," said Drogo, his voice sharp as stirred gravel.

"She said this with others around?" asked Malcolm.

"Yes, they heard her challenge me. I acted before the men punished her,” said Drogo.

Drogo pulled Malcolm to himself, touching at Malcolm's skin glimmering with golden flecks and stroking his fingers through Malcolm's hair streaked with gold. Drogo's arms protectively wrapped him like Valyrian armor. 

"I will deal with Ainsley," said Malcolm. "Stand beside me because when she dishonored me, she dishonored you as well."

Drogo cupped Malcolm's chin, his thumb stroking Malcolm's chin. His hand clamped at Malcolm's buttocks and he lifted Malcolm for a kiss that tangled their beards.

Malcolm was truly distraught over his dragon egg lodged within a gold lump half buried in the dirt. He hovered near the cauldron as the gold was once more super heated into liquid ore for him to recover his dragon egg. As Malcolm pondered what to do with his family, the golden egg cracked. Out clambered a serpentine creature chirping like a half plucked bird. Its scales gleamed in dappled radiance. 

He told only Drogo; they trusted one another. Malcolm's affection for his husband rooted more strongly as Drogo spoiled the dragon with red meat. In time, their little dragon would expel flames that singed Drogo’s proud mane of hair. For the moment, Drogo looked at Malcolm nursing the dragonling with goat’s milk as though Malcolm hung the moon.

* * *

Ainsley and Jessica had washed and dressed on what would be their day of reckoning. Upon orders from the khal and khaleesi, the Dothraki maidens seized and dragged Ainsley to a pyre built around a long stake in the sand.

Malcolm tethered Jessica in view of the khalasar with Khal Drogo tacitly looking on.

"Malcolm, Malcolm! We are your family! Let your sister go! Take me for her!!" Jessica howled and strained in her bindings.

Ainsley panted and wept, arms wrenched in their sockets before a Dothraki maiden tied her hands behind. She screamed as Malcolm drew his tomahawk and grabbed locks of her hair, sawing off the ends. Another Dothraki maiden carried a small lead chest belonging to Ainsley. Malcolm kicked it open, scattering two dragon eggs in the sand.

Malcolm made a comment in Dothraki about Westerosi and their pet rocks. Ugly laughter surrounded Ainsley as she was tied to the stakes. Malcolm lobbed her dragon eggs in with the kindling.

"Burn them all!" declared Malcolm like many Whitlys before him.

Jessica's mouth gaped in an earth rending shriek as her firstborn set fire to her baby girl.

"You and you father," gasped Jessica. "The same."

"You don't understand, but you will," said Malcolm. He holstered the tomahawk with blond hairs coiled around the spiked edge.

Columns of flame blazed higher than the tallest man. Once the larger groups of Dothraki tired of the heat from the fire and the sun, Khal Drogo ordered his khalasar to leave Jessica and Malcolm. Malcolm stayed with his mother to hold a shade over her head and to give her watered down wine.

"How could you Malcolm. How. You choose these savages over your own blood," said Jessica.

"I have to choose between my husband and child or my mother and sister. Ainsley mouthed off to my khal instead of speaking to him in private. If he lets this insult by a woman go unpunished, the men will cull him. They will hang me and slit my belly," said Malcolm.

"You could have gone with us."

"And what of Drogo? Shall my child grow up as though he were an illegitimate? Away from a father who already loves him? Drogo, who does everything I ask of him?" asked Malcolm. "Your son in law gives you two fine horses and a purse at my say so. When night falls, you must vanish under cover."

"Why two horses?" said Jessica.

"Wait and hope," said Malcolm. He watched his mother Jessica lean her face into the mare which Drogo had given him. He trusted Eve to meet his mother's needs without bucking wildly from his mother's dramatic flair.

They huddled together as thick black plumes of smoke reached the heavens. A young woman stepped out of the wreckage, dusted like coal save for the cornsilk blowing short and wild along her sooty face. A serpentine creature curled around her shoulder while its brother encircled her neck.

Ainsley smiled and waved as she kicked up sand.

“How now, Mother? Didn’t you tell us as babes that fire won't burn dragons?!” said Ainsley.

"You devil spawn!" cried Jessica, as she fell upon Ainsley's neck in a desperate hug. "What demons are these?"

"They're dragons!" exclaimed Ainsley. Jessica cradled the hatchlings while Malcolm helped her dress in lightly armored clothes.

Ainsley and Malcolm stood in the dusk, arms clasped, unsure as to when they would next encounter one another, dreading the question which hung between them: would they join hands or meet in crossfire?

"You're sure about going north?" said Malcolm.

"I'm more of a winter," Ainsley said, twirling her hackneyed strands. "In due time, I won't need men or their ships when I have motherfucking dragons."

The hungry keening from Ainsley's dragons caused them to part. The hatchling dragons required nourishment with the skein of goat milk and the uncured meat stowed on Ainsley's horse.

"Find Jon Snow," said Malcolm.

"An ex-lover?" asked Ainsley.

"As close as family," said Malcolm, shaking his head.

"Oh, how dull of you, bro. Speaking of family, if I get the chance, I'll tell Dad you said hi," said Ainsley, arching her sooty brow.

"Sweetheart," said Jessica. She pinched Malcolm's cheeks and rubbed his beard. "Let's not fight next time we meet, never mind Dothraki customs. Take care of my grandchild."

Malcolm tarried in pensive remembrances until he could no longer see their hoof prints in grains of sand. Then he returned home to his khalasar, his khal, and Sunshine, their little chirpy dragon.

“What will we do while my family raises hell across the seas?” said Malcolm. He pillowed his cheek upon Drogo’s shoulder. Drogo stroked Malcolm’s hair and tucked his arm beneath Malcolm’s curved stomach which firmed up with their child’s backbone. For Drogo, the lines where Malcolm’s skin stretched looked like veins of gold.

“We take everything,” promised his husband.

(And they reigned happily ever after.)

 _Fin_.

**Author's Note:**

> There's a great and tasteful! PSon Medieval AU fic "To Serve a Heart of Sovereignty" by ToriCeratops and Zoejoy24. Highly recommend if you liked my bullshit.
> 
> Update: The downside to writing gift fic for your go to beta reader/birthday lady is that you can't send them your gift fic to improve it. I added "And they reigned happily ever after" from the birthday lady's comment.


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